so cold
by flamed love
Summary: it's so quiet here and i feel so cold, this house no longer feels like home. rated t for slight language and alcohol refrences.


_It's so quiet here and I feel so cold,_

_this house no longer feels like home_.

"Another one, sir?" Bickerduff asked with a saddened smile, as he sat opposite of the boy. The boy just nodded his head, not having the will to even answer. Not even having the will to make eye contact.

The boy slammed his glass on the table, not giving a damn if it broke. He wanted it to brake. He finally looked up towards Bickerduff; his eyes glimmered with guilt and drunkenness. Mostly drunkenness.

"Why, think I can't handle it?" the boy teased as he grabbed the brandy bottle and messily poured himself another. Some spilled onto his black button-down. Opps.

The boy gulped the glass within seconds; his eyes squirmed together with the strong taste that consumed him. That's what you get for buying the godforsaken cheap brand.

The boy would have never dared let something so worthless, and frankly peasant-like, be passed through his lips. But at this very moment, he was thankful for having something to ease reality. Just for a little while.

"You know, I never opted you as someone who would drink. I mean your father used to, every single night. But, you…you had me fooled," Bickerduff said. He watched with sadness, the boy couldn't even sit properly at this point.

"Well, things change Bickerduff. Things that change you so much, so much, that you sometimes want to just make it stop. To stop change, stop it forever." The boy confessed.

"That's what I'm trying to do, I'm trying to stop change. But, frankly, it seems as if change has stopped me."

The boy looked down, locking his jaw firmly together. For some reason, that always helped him calm his emotions. It was a very well known Lucian strategy. His mother had taught him.

"_Figures, she used it at that godforsaken trial she had in Boston," _he thought. She used that very trick to stop herself from smirking, smirking at how pathetic she thought we all were.

How we didn't even know she was a Vesper, or that we didn't know her 'future plans' for the girl who cried in her closet for days.

_The Girl_.

The very girl who was the cause of this all, the reason why he was drunk at two in the morning and talking to his own butler as if he was a therapist.

The reason why he woke up at night panting, screaming her name as if he was being murdered. The reason why he no longer wanted to go to school, the reason why he didn't even want to touch his dart gun.

The reason why Ian Kabra was gone, forever.

The boy couldn't help the lone tear that traveled down his cheek, he just couldn't. He didn't care anymore about himself or his reputation, he didn't even care if he got out of bed or not.

Everything was rushing back towards the boy, causing him to hold his head tightly. He quickly fell to the ground. All the guilt and regret and pain came back. Everything pierced through his façade.

Bickerduff rushed to his side, trying to pry the boy's hands. The boy refused, pushing him away with such force that knocked Bickerduff into the stools.

"No, don't you get it?" the boy screamed.

"I can't stop, a ripper doesn't stop!"

"I'm a ripper, I'm a monster that hurts the people he loves. Lets the people he loves die, right in front of him," the boy growled.

He grabbed the brandy bottle and threw it against the wall, thousands of pieces scattered throughout.

"I'm a monster, a monster who let his sister die for nothing. Let his little sister step into the world by herself. This cruel world that I called home."

He gripped the edge of the table with his bare hands, hearing the crackling sound that traveled throughout. His breaths were violent and shallow.

"I did this, this is my fault," the boy whispered, his voice quivered with every word. He released his grip on the mahogany table, now using his hands to push against his temple.

"Don't you dare think like that, sir. This isn't your fault, its no ones fault!" Bickerduff argued as he turned the boy to face him.

"Natalie died a hero, she didn't die in vain. She died because she wanted to protect you; she wanted you to have a life. She wanted you to live." He continued.

"Do you really think she wanted you to mourn her death for what seems like forever? No. Quite frankly, she would have smacked you upright with her purse." He quietly chuckled.

The boy couldn't help the upright twitch of his lips, but it quickly disappeared the second it came.

"I'm her older brother, I'm the one who's supposed to protect her. I'm the one who should have held her close to rid her of her nightmares. I'm the one who should have encouraged her and told her how proud I was of her," he explained.

"I was supposed to tell her how much I loved her, how much I needed her."

The boy growled at his last statement, more guilt on his plate. More guilt he would have to endure in this bloody world.

"She knew, Ian. She will always watch over you and-

Bickerduff was interrupted by the sudden pain in his shoulder, its piercing liquid quickly traveled throughout his body.

He choked back a sob, clenching his shoulder and quickly losing his senses. It was as if a huge black cloud engulfed him, this cloud filled with pure evil.

Ian held the dart gun tightly in his hand, the silver encrusted plate glistening on his façade. Bickerduff would come to his senses soon, hopefully not in this goddam hour.

Ian knew he was telling the truth, but there's so much hurt a man can take. He knew his sister and mother were gone forever, he knew he was the pariah of the Cahills.

Hell, he knew he had crushed his heart about a million times.

As he looked away from Bickerduff, he walked on. Head held up high, eyes blazing with darkness and discovery.

He could hear the crunching of the glass under his feet, but he didn't mind.

And as he stepped out of that room, a new chapter in his life began. He wasn't the pariah anymore, or the billionaire brat.

No. He was Ian Kabra, the Lucian Heir that would find his way back home. One way or another.


End file.
